2 comments/ 4674 views/ 1 favorites The Diary of a Madman By: Mini_Sinclair Richard Conrad threw the best parties. He never hired bands or orchestras for entertainment—he was the entertainment. He now sat in front of his baby grand piano and played lively tunes, singing along in a clear and beautiful tenor. The guests were full of smiles and just a little too drunk. The party was in full swing, sounds of amiable chatter and laughter wafting through the air like the strong scent of cigars and cocktail drinks that were passed around. Everything was great, everyone was happy. So why was Richard's wife so disconcerted? Maggie stood in a corner of the grand ballroom, frowning. She'd thought she knew her husband, thought he was a loving, decent, wonderful man. She wasn't so sure anymore. Richard was hiding something. How often had she caught him in strange telephone conversations and acting secretive? He sounded cryptic on the phone—as if concealing something. Then there were the times when she caught him rummaging in his wooden trunk. He always closed the lid and locked it up just moments before she entered his study. And that was another thing: the trunk. His secrets were in there, locked away with a key—a key that she gained possession of tonight. She removed it from his trouser pocket as he prepared for the party. She had replaced it with a similar-looking key so that he wouldn't notice it was gone. He wouldn't worry about his trunk though, not tonight. He was too distracted for that. This was the chance to do some serious snooping. Time for the great reveal. Slowly, she glided among the guests as they demanded an encore to whatever tunes Richard had just played. She ascended the stairs, leaving behind a blur of satin and sequins. Finally, she would be able to enter his domain uninterrupted. A mixture of eagerness and dread twisted her stomach in knots. But she had to be strong. She had come this far; she might as well take the plunge. It was now or never. Richard's study was a bibliophile's dream. Cherry wood shelves lined the walls, reaching from the ceiling almost to the floor. It covered every corner of the square-shaped room. Categorized and alphabetized leather volumes filled the shelves. You'd find anything from William Blake to F. Scott Fitzgerald. There were classics as well as contemporaries, even silly romance novels and penny dreadfuls. Richard had no preference. He just loved to read. He taught literature at one of the most prestigious preparatory school for boys in Boston. The written word was in his bones. The office area of the study was a little more subdued. A Persian carpet lay on the floor. Two lamps sat on a large oak desk, providing sufficient lighting for the entire room. On the desk sat a small pile of corrected homework and test papers. Opposite the papers stood a tall vase filled with sharpened pencils. She had given him that vase full of blue roses on their first wedding anniversary. She was glad he still used it, even if it was just for storing pencils. A leather-bound collection of short stories was also there, with Henry James's The Turn of the Screw bookmarked with a ruler. Maggie smiled. Whatever Richard had inside his trunk, she was almost certain it would involve a great deal of reading. Slowly she made her way to the center of the room, breathing the scent of books. She would love nothing more than to grab a copy of Jane Eyre (her favorite book) and enjoy some leisure reading. Richard never allowed her to spend time alone in the study. The study was his place, his sanctuary, and she was not allowed anywhere near it, at least not without his consent. Richard was selfless with everything except for his study and the contents thereof. Laughter filtered in from downstairs, and Maggie knew she had to hurry if she stood any chance of uncovering the contents in the trunk. She rushed to the corner of the room, opposite a Queen Anne chair, where the small wooden trunk sat by the wall. Hands shaking, she entered the key and turned. Then she took a deep breath. The time had come. What was Richard hiding from her? Did he have a mistress? Was he involved in some illegal activity? Had he lived a scandalous life before he married the daughter of a well-respected city judge? Out of all those possibilities, she knew the last one would be the worst one, for her father would never forgive Richard some indiscretion or other. Her hand hovered over the trunk's lid. Her mind whirled with indecision. Maybe she should have left well enough alone. Richard was entitled to his quirks. He didn't have to share every single detail of his life to her. He was a good husband, most of the time, the times when his strange behavior—his other self—did not emerge and put a damper on their marital bliss... Notebooks were neatly stacked in one corner of the trunk. The notebooks had dates on the covers. Sheets of paper with notes scribbled messily were scattered on the opposite side. Some rubber bands, a pair of scissors, an ink well and various pens were also found. Maggie frowned. Was that what Richard was hiding? Was he a writer? Or was he aspiring to be a writer? Well, why not, thought Maggie. This was Richard, after all: the eternal academic, the quirky man who one moment was an urbane party entertainer and a brooding loner the next. She had often found him at his desk, pen poised over paper, frowning with concentration. It wouldn't surprise Maggie if he had in fact dabbled with the written word. But why on earth would he hide it from her? Was he afraid that he was no good? Didn't he want to expose his writing talent, if any, to his wife and to the rest of the world? She grinned, delighted with this prospect. Richard was a writer. How wonderful! Then doubt set in. He wouldn't be pleased to know that she had read his work. She saw it now, laid out before her, his anger and disappointment with her. No, no, no. She wouldn't think about the consequences, not now. Maggie kneeled in front of the trunk and opened a notebook that dated from October 1932 to September 1933. Inside the pages were filled with Richard's familiar scrawl. He'd written notes, lots of notes that made no sense. Names and locations were mentioned in a careless fashion, most of which seemed to have been added randomly. This was Richard's big secret, a series of unintelligible notes. Frustrated, Maggie continued to leaf through the notebook until she found a journal entry with today's date on top of the page. It was the last entry in the book. This is what she read. I am your worst nightmare. You don't know what you got yourself into when you married me. You sold your soul to the devil—and now the devil has come to collect. I have looked forward to this night ever since the first time we met, two years ago. Do you remember that? You went to a cocktail party at my school, and our eyes met as if Fate had brought us together. Fate brought us together all right. It brought me to you, so that I may show you love, help you host the best parties, and help you be more than just the plain-faced, clean-cut daughter of an anal retentive judge. We will host a party this evening. It will be wonderful, as all our parties are. Everyone will see what a perfect husband I am, what a charming fellow I am—and what an entertainer! The life of the party. A real people person. In a way, this personality—this character I have created for the world to see—will be my alibi. There is no way that someone like me would be capable of committing such a heinous crime. And so what if they do? I'll be long gone by the time your body is found. But don't worry, darling, it won't occur during the party. I will wait until our guests shuffle out of our grand home, our wedding present from your father, and then I will make sweet love to you as my fingers dig slowly into your small neck, taking your breath away. I will watch your eyes as you die, and my love for you will die as you die. Then I will move on—on to the next victim. I will move to some other town, some other state, perhaps even a different country. A madman can never be too careful. I will find another teaching job; I have never had problems in that regard. Should I teach English literature again, or should I seek out other academic pursuits? Perhaps I'll teach music. As you know, I am an avid musician, a maestro with the piano. I'll keep my options open. Life is full of options, don't you think? At least it is for the living. Once I find the perfect job, I shall endeavor to meet my future wife. She's out there somewhere. She, like you and the others, won't recognize me for the madman that I am. She won't suspect a thing because I am a handsome chap who is well read and speaks romantic words. She, like you, will be flattered by my words and my good looks. And I will love her, until her death do us part. Blood drained from Maggie's face, perspiration breaking across her brow. Then numbness took over her. What the hell was this? The other books produced nothing more than random notes, so she pulled out a sheaf of about a dozen pages, all with different dates on them. Some of the entries dated as far back as 1919—fourteen years ago! Taking a deep breath, she skimmed through all of them. The best part about falling in love with one of my students is that I get to teach her not just about literature, but about life. I also get to take away that very life... I have no idea how to go about killing you, darling. Should I do it while I make love to you, watch your eyes as they turn from desire to confusion and then to fear? Wine is an aphrodisiac. It is also a potent killer. Or at least it will be tonight, for I will poison your drink and watch as you die once you've had your glassful of the liquid... I shall relish the image of my wife as she lies lifeless upon the bed. Happy Anniversary, my love. She dropped the books and papers and moved away from the trunk, pressing her hands against her stomach to fight a wave of nausea. She didn't want to read anymore. She didn't have to. She had found out more than she wanted to know about her husband. Richard Conrad was a cold-hearted murderer. He had murdered loving, unsuspecting women in the past, and she was next. He wanted to watch her eyes as she died, and then he would disappear, just like he had done before. Frantic, she ran out of the study, a place she once saw as cozy and beautiful was now sinister and forbidden. Her heart began to race with the knowledge that she had opened a Pandora's Box and would never be able to close it again. How could she unlearn such knowledge? She couldn't. She had to do something, had to reach a telephone to notify the police. Panic-filled seconds passed as she crept down through the servants' stairs that led to the kitchen. Her long green satin gown limited her movements, causing her to stumble in her desperate attempt to seem as inconspicuous as possible. A flurry of activity went uninterrupted as Maggie made her way into the side door, the servants' quarters. She wasn't allowed to enter the staff's rooms—Richard said it was unbecoming to someone such as herself. She often suspected that he was mocking her. His contempt for her family was no secret. The Betancouths were quite proud, especially her father, the Honorable Judge Geoffrey Betancouth, and Richard had often felt inferior to them. She crept down a short corridor that led into the ballroom. The ballroom, normally dimly lit by lamps, was now buzzing with light. Richard was no longer on the piano. The music now came from an enormous gramophone in the sitting area. Laughter and animated chatter floated through the house. Someone called out to Richard. A man, a voice she recognized as belonging to a good friend of Richard's, a fellow English professor, thundered from somewhere amongst the crowd. "Dick, old boy, where is that handsome wife of yours?" "Well, I don't know," Richard answered. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen her around in quite some time." Panic seized her. She had to figure out a way to get past the servants and the guests without rousing attention. She had to call the police before Richard found her. Gasping, she turned away from the corridor and slowly made her way back to the kitchen. Should she somehow let him know she was on to his schemes? Could she stand before him and their guests, point an accusing finger at him and let everyone know that he was a madman, a murderer? That would teach him! How could he enter her life, make her fall in love with him, give her an equal measure of happiness and misery, only to take it all away with her very life? No, she wouldn't be like the others. She was a different kettle of fish. She was made of stronger stuff. She smiled bitterly, ready to face her tormentor and tarnish the image of the doting husband, and then watch as the police handcuffed and took him away. The evidence was in this very house, in his precious trunk. He had nowhere to go but to the slammer. The tables were turned. Vengeance would be hers. But as she felt the warm glow of revenge seeping into her limbs, reality set in. She couldn't think of revenge right now. First things first. She needed access to the phone while Richard was otherwise engaged with the guests. Survival came first, vengeance came second. She paused by the kitchen exit, her hand on the doorknob, and listened. Various voices poured into her ears, Richard's voice among them. Beyond the door the great house stretched beautiful and lively. The guests were certainly enjoying themselves, and the servants, too, were merry. No one would notice her as she made a telephone call. It was just Mrs. Conrad, talking on the phone. Nothing special. Best to leave her alone. She scanned the kitchen, looking for a telephone. She found none. Horror set in when she remembered that there was only one telephone in the house, and it was perched on a lamp table in the foyer, near the ballroom, where a swarm of guests stood about, laughing and gossiping. There was no way she could make a call in that noisy room. She wouldn't be able to hear the people on the other line, and she was certain they wouldn't be able to hear her. Another problem arose: what if one of the guests overheard her conversation and notified Richard? Would he make a clean escape, or would he cause some kind of mayhem? There was no predicting his reaction. He was mad, after all. Jeopardizing the lives of innocent people was not an option. She had to escape—she had no other choice. Careful to be as quiet possible, Maggie eased the kitchen door open, then she removed her shoes and tiptoed her way into the backdoor. She didn't look back to see if someone had spotted her leaving the premises. Once she was free she ran out of the stifling house and into the night. **** The woods were very dark. Straining her eyes, Maggie picked her way between the trees and bushes, fast and frantic, with many stumbles and scrapes, as the distance grew between her and the house. But where was she going? Who was she going to go to for help? The nearest house was miles away, in another district, and she had no means of getting there. Both cars were in the garage. She would have taken one of them had she known how to drive. She would find an open road, catch a ride, then go to the police. Yes, that would be the plan. A strange sort of exhilaration took over Maggie as she thought of her escape. It was as if her life with Richard—the comfort and contentment of it all—had been closing in on her, stifling her with a false sense of security. Had she been as happy as she thought, or had she sensed all along that Richard wasn't what he appeared to be? There was always something a little off about him, but she had waved it off as mere eccentricity. Eccentricity was an essential part of his personality—it was what Maggie loved most about him. He was interesting and unique; dark and brooding in a romantic, nineteenth-century gothic novel sort of way, kind of like Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre. But more importantly, he was nothing like her family. Propriety didn't interest him, and he thought politics were a bore. Her father disliked Richard—all the more reason to marry him. In short, he was perfect. That he wasn't perfect hit her like a ton of bricks. He had warned her once that he wasn't perfect, but she refused to listen. She ignored the warning signs until she could no longer do so. She had no idea what to expect from that trunk, but she definitely hadn't expected the disturbing confessions of a psychopath. Why wasn't his secret something banal, like adultery? A soft breeze drifted through the trees, creating a gentle rustle among the leaves. Her vision was almost impaired due to the darkness around her, but her hearing was alert. Every small sound was intensified, though no actual sound came to her except for her own breathing. Fearfully, she cast a quick over-the-shoulder glance at the distant light that came from her house. A momentary panic took over her. Had Richard realized that she was missing? Were he and that professor friend of his searching for her now? Or—even worse—had he gone to his study and discovered his opened trunk with his incriminating papers and journals scattered all over the floor? Was he out in the woods, searching for her? A chill slid over her. She had to find an open road, but where? She ran and ran, with no idea how far she'd gone, or where she had gone. Was she heading north or south? And did it matter? She noticed with some alarm how black and sinister the trees looked and how the branches crouched and crowded over each other. Shadows streamed back and forth as if from nowhere. She jumped in fright several times, only to realize that it was her own shadow. She marveled at the fact that she could see her own shadow in such darkness. How was that even possible? The moonlight, she thought. The faint light came from the moonlight. Then she stopped, her ears picking up a faint sound, her heart beating out of her chest. What was that? Was that a... a voice? Had she heard feet moving upon the leaves on the ground? Was she being followed? A minute went by, two minutes. Maggie was frozen into place, trying to still the terror that was twisting her insides. In a moment it would be over; it was just an animal or a rodent—maybe a squirrel or a raccoon, possibly a deer. No big deal. The woods were quiet. The air shifted a little, sending cold shivers down Maggie's spine. One minute, two minutes, three. No sound. Nothing but the rustle of leaves on the trees. She was safe. "Maggie? Maggie, darling, where are you?" Her nerves jumped and tingled to the faint and distant sound of Richard's voice. He sounded far away, very far away, but to Maggie he might as well have whispered in her ear. She could do nothing else but run like she'd never run before, her mind whirling with sheer apprehension. Adrenaline rushed to her system, enabling her to run faster. Weariness was slowly coursing through her, but her survival instincts were winning this battle. Richard would not find her. She would not become one of his victims. She would go to the police, and he would be taken away, out of her life forever. One thing was certain: she would live. She hadn't survived an overbearing father, a passive mother, and a lonely childhood lying down. She went against all odds and married the man she chose, not the one her father had carefully selected for her. She would survive this new bump in the road. She had to. Leaves shifted with a passing breeze. Owls hooted, crickets shrilled. Blindly, Maggie stumbled on some rocks and fell with a loud thump. Her breath came out in a gasp, pain enveloping her limbs as she dragged herself into some bushes. Halfway there, she spit out the blood that was oozing out of her cut lip. There were rocks and pebbles on the ground, as well as clumps of ivy and earth. She retched violently, tears of despair and helplessness running down her cheeks. She lay there for an indefinite amount of time, sobbing. Why am I running away, Maggie thought. It's stupid and useless. It would only be a matter of time before Richard found me. And even if he didn't find me, I was alone in the woods, right smack in the middle of nowhere. I'm as good as dead. Face it, fool, you're dead. The Diary of a Madman She should have remained at the party and waited things out. She knew that now, yet she couldn't fathom staying another second in that house, with a murderer under her roof. She caught hold of a thorn branch and held on to it to steady herself to her feet, then lurched to her intended destination. Pressing her knees to her chest, she lay in between two bushes. Had she really heard Richard's voice, and did it matter? At that moment—amid the pain, exhaustion and despair—she didn't care. The sound of the breeze hitting the trees was pleasant, the bushes oddly comforting; the lonely and dark forest with its sinister surroundings now gave an illusion of safety as Maggie slowly drifted to sleep. **** The woman in the mirror had never been beautiful, but she was tonight. Her thin eyebrows were penciled into two flawless arches, and her chin-length hair was a mass of chestnut brown curls. The wedding dress was classically tailored, an off-the-shoulder white silk number with small pearl buttons down the back. The skirt reached her ankles and the neckline plunged down in a daring way. Maggie wondered if her father and his cronies had thought the dress too vulgar for the occasion. Not that she cared what her father thought. She was a married woman now. The day had been magical. Her parents went out of their way to make sure it would exceed her expectations. Just because she was marrying the wrong man did not mean they wouldn't throw a lavish party. Her father had also supplied a generous dowry in addition to the house as a wedding present. "You may have married beneath you, but that doesn't mean you can't still live like a queen," he father had whispered in her ear. The wedding reception was wonderful. Roses and lilies adorned the large foyer of the Betancouth estate; the French doors hung wide open, a summer breeze drifted into the warm room. A jazz orchestra was perched on the far corner of the room, a saxophone providing the melody to the catchy tune. (This was the only time that Richard was not part of the musical entertainment.) Pealing laughter and animated chatter rang from all places; Judge Betancouth's voice was the loudest as he boasted about being one of the few lucky people whose investments survived the big market crash. None of it mattered to Maggie. She was happy, the happiest she had ever been, as she and Richard moved among the guests, holding hands as if they were still courting. Their eyes met on various occasions, gentle smiles were exchanged. No words were needed. They were in love. Yes, the party had been wonderful. Now she hoped that the wedding night would be just as memorable. Richard appeared from behind and held her close, wrapping his arms around her waist. They stared at their reflection in the mirror in silence—his face smiling, hers frowning. "A penny for your thoughts," he said. "Why did you marry me?" He gave her a quizzical look, then grinned unexpectedly. "What are you on about now, sweetheart?" She leaned against him and smiled a small smile. "I mean, really, why did you? I am hideous compared to you. I'm not interesting or worldly. My father is a well-respected judge, but that is hardly reflected well on me. I'm not strikingly intelligent or witty or even pretty. All I have to offer is money and comfort, but you've told me many times that money is not important to you. You're too good for me, Richard. You know that, don't you?" He kissed the back of her head. "Silly girl." "No," she countered, turning to him, "I'm serious. I'm thirty years old, you know. I was resigned to a life of spinsterhood when you came along. You could have married a sassy twenty-year-old with a giddy disposition and a large bosom." "That's nonsense and you know it." "No, it isn't. At least not to me." Richard looked pained. "Look, I've never told you this story before—in fact, I don't think I've ever told this to anyone—but I'm not as perfect as you make me out to be." He retreated a few steps, sighed, ran his hand through his dark hair, sighed again. "My family was poor, but we were happy. Then my father died—consumption—and everything changed. My mother never recovered from his death. She drank, slept, then drank some more. I think she forgot that she had a nine-year-old son who needed her. She forgot about everything. She only saw her own grief, not realizing that I, too, was suffering. It came as no surprise when I found her hanging from my tree house two months after my father died." Blood drained from Maggie's face when she heard the last sentence. She reached out and held his hand, and he squeezed it back. "Books became an escape for me," he said in a small voice. "The stories and their characters were my only solace during my time of grief. My mother had no idea how much pain she had caused me. She was selfish. She only cared about her own feelings, her own needs. Everything was right with the world as long as she had what she wanted. She didn't miss my father—she missed my father's love and devotion to her. He never meant anything to her, and I sure as hell didn't mean a damn thing to her." A flash of anger flickered in Richard's eyes so intense yet so swift that Maggie wondered if she had imagined it. A heavy silence fell. She wanted to hold him, tell him she loved him and that he would never lose her, that her love for him was unconditional. It wouldn't have mattered if he didn't love her—she'd love him just the same. She opened her mouth to tell him those things but quickly closed it. Something stopped her, but she didn't know what. Richard smiled, caressed her cheek and said, "So, you see, darling, I don't deserve you. Not if you think I'm perfect. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into when you chose me to be your husband. I am your worst nightmare." She froze. Had she imagined it, or did his voice have a ring of menace to it? She looked into his dark eyes, trying to read their expression. He observed her with an odd glint in his eyes. He laughed and said, "I'm an absolute nightmare when it comes to my privacy. Certain rooms will be mine and mine alone. I am not to be disturbed when I'm in my study, and I certainly don't want to be disturbed when I am reading my books or correcting school papers." He kissed her forehead. "I'm afraid you will have to abide by those rules, my love. Otherwise—" He made a cutting hand motion over his neck. Then he smiled, and laughed, and told her he loved her very much, and pushed her onto the bed and became passionate. Their wedding night was unforgettable. He doted on her the entire time. There was never an instance in which she felt unsatisfied. Yet something—a nagging sensation—coursed through her whenever she thought of his alarming remark. I am your worst nightmare. Warning flags waved in her head, and she tried hard to ignore them. It was a harmless comment. He meant nothing by it. He laughed afterwards, after all. Little did she know at the time that it would be the first of numerous disturbing remarks involving subtle but unsettling threats. Still, she made excuses for him. He was an eccentric. He meant no harm. The man was an academic, a deep thinker, simply too solemn and intense for his own good... **** She came awake the instant she heard voices. "Where on earth could she have gone? There's no one around for miles." It was Richard. A voice she'd never heard before responded. "Then the chances of finding her are quite good. It shouldn't take much longer." "She's been missing all night!" "And you said she didn't drive away?" "Both cars are in the garage. All the guests' cars were there when they eventually left. She can't drive anyway." "Do any of last night's guests know she's missing?" "Of course not. One of the kitchen maids saw her running alone into the woods and came straight to me. Did you know I had to tell the guests that Maggie was feeling unwell and had gone to bed? It took forever to get them all to leave. It was a nightmare." He said nothing for a few seconds. "What on earth possessed her to run to the woods in the middle of the night? We were hosting a party, for crying out loud." A momentary silence followed. Then, "Have there been any marital difficulties lately, Mr. Conrad?" Richard laughed a derisive sort of laugh. "That's just the thing, sir, our marriage is perfect." "Is there a chance that she might have found you in a... compromising position with another lady during this party?" Richard snorted. "No, not at all. Although..." A pause. "Yes?" Richard sighed. "Nothing. I—I'm sure there's some sort of misunderstanding." "Quite common in a marriage, Mr. Conrad. Always a misunderstanding or other. Are you all right? You've gone quite pale, sir. Here. Have a cigarette." A lighter snapped open and flared. The strong smell of tobacco filtered through the bushes where Maggie remained, motionless. She craned her neck and cast a glance at the two men, careful not to groan with pain and discomfort as she moved. Her entire body ached, and her dress, face and hair were covered in dirt and mud from the morning dew. Her dress was now in shreds, and one of her shoes was missing a heel. Her mouth tasted of blood. She hadn't realized just how badly hurt she was until now. The stranger took a drag on his cigarette and frowned. "You do realize that if her body is found—" "If her body is found?" Richard cut in, voice harsh. "There is no if here. We'll find her. And what do you mean by 'her body'? Maggie's alive, I know she is." She could see the two men as plainly as water on glass, their faces lit by the morning sun. The stranger wore a brown coat with a matching hat, looked sort of serious and official, like a policeman, maybe an inspector— Oh my God, Maggie thought. The police! Richard had called the police! The fool had made things easy for her by calling the police. She was safe! Now she could tell them what happened. She lay there quietly, savoring the safety and the stillness the bushes provided as she waited for either Richard or the stranger to move away. She was still wary of Richard. What if the man wasn't a policeman? What if he was some sort of killer friend or something? Judging by their conversation, it seemed that they were not hunting her down to kill her, yet some instinct warned her not to move, not to call out to the officer, if that's what he was, but to just lie there and wait it out. She wondered why she felt this way. After all, didn't the fact that Richard had called out for help absolve him from his alleged crimes? Still, she did not move. She decided to trust her instincts for once. "Well," the official-looking man spoke, "let's get going. We'll walk a little more, see if she's hiding in a cave or something. The sun's out, so the search will come easier now. My men have spread out. The town sheriff's here too. We'll meet near the house in about an hour. But don't worry, sir. Won't be long till we hear something, I assure you." Feet shuffled through the leaves on the ground, moving away from the area. Maggie smiled a little, thinking with a surge of relief that, had the man not been there to distract him, Richard must surely have spotted her. The stranger had mentioned the sheriff. So, he was a policeman, after all. Now was the time to move. Policemen were out searching for her. She was bound to run into one of them. Ignoring her aching limbs, she staggered to her feet, swaying a little, her heart going wild in her chest. Her movements were slow, too slow, as she limped her way through the forest. Daylight hadn't made the surroundings any less gloomy or ominous. If anything, it was more terrifying. Now she wouldn't be able to hide quite as well as she had done the night before. If only she could find a policeman... She spotted a man about a hundred feet away. He was wearing plain clothes, but he had to be an officer. She ran, or at least tried to run, as fast as she could. She kicked off her shoes and ripped out the bottom half of her dress, affording her the freedom to move at a faster pace. She opened her mouth to call out to the officer when she was suddenly tackled from behind and dragged to some trees on her hands and knees. A hand pressed against the small of her back, pinning her to the ground. Another hand covered her mouth. "Do not scream," a menacing voice said. Richard's voice. She could scarcely move, couldn't even breathe. She grunted loudly, but it came out muffled, his hand still covering her mouth. "Shut up!" he hissed. "Please, Margaret, just—I know why you did this. I know you opened the trunk and read my journals. Just let me explain." Margaret. He only addressed her by her real name when he was either angry or flustered. Slowly, he released her and moved her gently to her feet, steadying her with his hands. He winced when he saw the state she was in, but he stood his ground, his jaw clenching in irritation. "So," he said, taking half a step toward Maggie, "you broke into my trunk." Maggie heaved out a sigh with a kind of controlled desperation. "Yes, and I know what you did to those women, and the things you were going to do to me!" "Margaret—" "You're mad! You seduce women, marry them, and then kill them! It's all there in your journals! I'm glad you called the police—you've saved me the trouble of doing so myself." Anger flickered in Richard's eyes. "The police wouldn't even be here if it weren't for your father. Most people have to be missing for twenty-four hours to garner alarm, but not the daughter of an honorable judge." Maggie stared in stunned silence. Richard spat out the words "honorable judge" as if they were something ugly. His contempt for her father was now more obvious than ever. "Does Father know about this?" "No, but the police know who you are." He took another step closer, but she stopped him with one hand. "You come any closer and I will scream, I swear it." Richard mumbled something under his breath and reached inside his jacket pocket, pulling out a small stack of magazines. He thrust the magazines into her hands and retreated a few steps. Maggie's hands shook as she gazed down at the thin journals with colorful and macabre covers—pulp magazines. "Go to page fifty-eight in that first one there," he said, indicating the magazines. She looked up at him with a quizzical air, then she leafed through the publication until she found page fifty-eight. It featured a short story with some small illustrations on the left page; the story was titled "The Diary of a Madman." The byline read, "Anonymous." "It's a series of sorts," Richard said very quietly. "I submit a five-thousand word manuscript every two years or so. It is, after all, the amount of time it takes the nameless narrator to seduce and kill his women. I've never had any personal contact with the editors or publishers. I don't know them and they don't know me. But they like my stories. They're quite popular among readers who get a kick out of that sort of thing—high society murders, serial killers, damsels in distress, and so on. The money is terrible, but I don't do it for the money. I enjoy writing those stories." Maggie moved toward him slowly, stiffly, as if she were sleepwalking. Neither of them spoke as she skimmed through the story. It was written in diary format, the madman regaling the reader with his psychotic thoughts and murderous yearnings. The story was quite well written, too good for this sort of publication. And unlike the cloak and dagger plots typically found in pulp fiction, this story was accompanied with very few illustrations. The narrative carried the story. Maggie finally spoke. "But—why did you hide this from me? Why didn't you just tell me you were a writer?" Richard laughed. "And kill all delusions you had about me? The distinguished and fascinating and mysterious academic is in fact nothing but a mediocre writer of crime stories. Your father would have loved that." Voices filtered in from somewhere in the woods. Birds chirped, crows cawed. Maggie took no notice. She was oblivious to anything but Richard. She was suddenly full of questions. "Have you been married before?" "No." "But the women in your stories—" "Are all fictional, Maggie." Pause. And then, "But the entry I read in your journal, the one about killing me after the party—" "You inspired me to write that story." Indignation flared in her eyes. "You wrote about killing me!" "It's just a story, Maggie. It's fiction." "It's not very flattering." "It's meant to be a compliment, you idiot," he half-shouted, so as not to be heard by the police who hovered nearby. "You're always telling me how unattractive and uninteresting you are compared to me, but has it occurred to you that your insecurities and complexities fascinate me, and that it inspired me to base my new story on you?" She let this sink in for a moment, then shook her head as if to erase a bad memory. "Besides," he added in haste, "you read the first draft. I was going to change most of it." "You were so secretive, so protective of your privacy, so... peculiar at times. And those telephone calls! You hung up the phone whenever I walked into the foyer." "I was talking with a work colleague. He's the only one who knows I'm a writer and tried to talk me into writing a novel under my real name. He said he had contacts with a famous publisher. I turned him down." "Why?" "The world is full of dime novels written by mediocre writers; they don't need new ones." "But you're not a mediocre writer." He gave her a half smile. "Why, that is the nicest thing you've said all morning." Maggie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, her heart beating in slow, painful strokes. "I'm an idiot," she said gravely. "I should have known. I mean—I did know, but when I read those entries reason left me and I thought I was trusting my instincts. I am so terribly sorry, Richard." A solemn silence followed. Richard was standing very still now. The morning mist swirled around them, and a sudden chill was seeping through Maggie's bones, making her teeth chatter. Was it her imagination, or did the mist build distance between them? Richard seemed far away all of a sudden—so far away that she couldn't reach him. It suddenly occurred to her that this was how she always saw Richard: as someone unreachable. But she finally began to see him as he truly was—a man with faults as well as virtues, a man with insecurities of his own. He was no longer the object of her romantic imagination, the handsome sophisticate, the dark and brooding hero of some nineteenth-century gothic novel. She said, "Do you really think I would have rejected you if I'd known about your stories?" He answered in a queer voice, "Maybe you wouldn't have rejected me, but our lives wouldn't have been as perfect." "Do you remember when you told me you weren't perfect, that you were my worst nightmare?" He grimaced. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that speech." She let out a hoarse laugh. "Well, now I tell you the same thing. I am not perfect, and so I don't expect you to be either. I think it's wonderful that you write." A pause, then, "I—I wish we could move on from this and start over." He didn't move, just stared at Maggie with unreadable eyes. She was trembling now, both from the cold air and from the apprehension that seized her. Her body felt numb, as if her long night of running had somehow paralyzed her limbs. Richard was looking at her as if he wished her gone. "I—I mean," she stammered, "if you want to. I understand if you don't, and I promise you that—" "Maggie?" "Yes?" "Shut up." He suddenly pulled her to him, wrapping his coat around her shoulders. "Mrs. Conrad? Is that you?" The Diary of a Madman The police inspector tottered toward them. Breaking their embrace, Richard turned to the man and, with laughter in his voice, said, "I've found her! She's got a few cuts and bruises, and she must be exhausted, poor thing, but not much worse for wear. We'll explain why she ran away. It was all a big misunderstanding..." **** Maggie placed a shiny new typewriter on top of Richard's desk, her three-year wedding anniversary present for him. So long to longhand writing and hello to typing. He deserved better than a vase full of flowers, and so she got the best gift she could think of. She couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he came home from work tonight. A small surprise before they left. Richard had reserved a romantic weekend of dinner and music at one of the loveliest summerhouses in Nantucket. The suitcases were made; they were set and ready to go. Eight months had passed since that horrible incident with the trunk. Explaining it all to the police hadn't been easy, but after reading all of Richard's notes and journal entries, not to mention his published stories, they understood Maggie's apprehension. The content in the trunk would have terrified anyone, especially a young woman with Mrs. Conrad's sensibilities. They contacted the pulp magazines and even questioned Richard's work colleague—the one who had advised Richard to write a novel. Everything cleared and the incident was disregarded and forgotten, and, as a personal favor to Richard, it would not be mentioned to Judge Betancouth. Why upset the old man? Maggie moved from the desk and went to the bookshelf, and took down an early edition of The Portrait of a Lady. She was no longer forbidden from entering the study without Richard's consent, but she still had no access to the trunk. He would always be unforthcoming about certain things; she would just have to accept that. She knew he was working on a novel. At least he had been working on one. She wasn't so sure anymore. "Is it a crime story?" she'd asked him while they were having dinner one night. "It's a story of mystery and suspense." "Have you spoken with your colleague about having it published?" A cloud passed over his face. "No." "Getting literary cold feet?" she'd asked playfully, hoping to lighten his mood again. He closed his eyes and sighed. "I won't publish it." Her face fell. "What, why not?" "Because... I can't. My writing career is over. I will no longer write the 'Diary of a Madman' stories. As for the novel... I won't show it to my colleague, or to anyone. It's for my eyes only." "But that's absurd," she'd frowned. "Why stop now when things are going so well?" Richard picked up his butter knife and examined it in the light of the candles that Maggie had placed on the dinner table. The faint candlelight cast a phantom-like glow across his hard features. "Is anything the matter?" Maggie asked worriedly. "How many times do I have to tell you that you're a talented writer? Richard, honey, I'm sure your novel is going to be great." He didn't say anything, just continued to gaze at the knife with a sullen air. "Are you blocked?" Maggie persisted. "Because if that's what's happening—" "Margaret, just—shut up. Please, let me eat my dinner in peace." Maggie closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Perhaps it would have been better if she had never found those journals and papers inside Richard's trunk. He was cagey with his writing, and now that the cage was open... There was no point in dwelling on the matter. She only hoped that the typewriter would enable him to start writing again. She wouldn't let him abandon his writing career before it had a chance to begin. Her eyes shifted to the trunk and smiled. Their marriage had improved after that terrible night in the woods. Things were lighter between them, far less strained than the year before. Richard was more open, much gentler, and communicative in the things that truly mattered. And Maggie wouldn't put their marriage in danger again. She would try her best to stay positive, not let her shortcomings, real or imagined, bother her. She would never interfere with his personal affairs again. She was lucky to have Richard. He wasn't perfect, not even close, but he was wonderful in many ways. **** Maggie was right. Richard was wonderful. He was charming and urbane one moment, brooding and taciturn the next. He was both an academic and a lover of penny dreadfuls. He was light but dark, consistent yet contrary. He wasn't perfect, but as far as husbands went, he was damn near perfect. He was handsome, intelligent, faithful, supportive, dependable, generous and attentive. But, more important, his feelings for Maggie ran deep. He loved her, until her death parted them.